She Sees Me
by towalkinyourlight
Summary: One-shot. When I see Kirsten standing at the bedroom door, my whole world freezes. Cameron's point of view from episode 4, when Kirsten sees Cameron's scar.


The hot water cascades down my shoulders, doing wonders to the tension there. Today has been a long one, and so was last night, and the day before. I'm more than a bit drained; all the worrying about Kirsten, and the moments I shared with her the past two days, combined with breaking into an apartment, stopping a human trafficking job, and almost getting run down by a van, has been pretty taxing.

Rolling my neck, I let the drops of water pound into my back, trying to relax. The case is closed, and it has a hopeful ending; I shouldn't be this tense. Yet, the feelings persist, and, as usual, I'm drawn inexplicably to my memories of Kirsten. Her enraptured face as she explained how watching people so vulnerable was intoxicating. The way her face clouded had punched a hole in my heart when she watched the video of Marta. The worry I felt when I sent her in for a second stitch. Her stubborn face in my mind, insisting I trust her the way I want her to trust me. The ghost of the smile that crossed her face when I called her remarkable, and the closeness we felt when we made our promises, to keep her safe, and free from secrets. Watching her in awe and bemusement as she tapped along the apartment wall, and then taking a fire extinguisher to the drywall. The moment of horror I felt as the van was speeding towards her determined frame in the middle of the alleyway, terrified that I wouldn't be able to get her out of the way in time. The way her thin form felt pressed up against my arms and my chest, and the small moment of victory I enjoyed when she didn't pull away.

I close my eyes and tilt my head under the water, letting the memories of her wash over me with it. Even though she has no idea how I feel about her, and regardless of the fact she'll probably never feel the same, I can't help but bask in every second I get to spend with her. Obstinate, free-spirited Kirsten, who has even the iron lady Maggie Baptiste bending to her every whim. And then there's me, wrapped around her finger, following her everywhere, making sure she's safe. She's forever branded into my heart, never to go away.

Turning off the faucet, I grab a towel off the rod and pat my face dry. I step onto the cold bathroom floor, padding bare-foot over to the steamed-up mirror. Wiping the condensation off with a free hand, I try my best to ignore the reflection of the bumpy line going down the middle of my chest. I mop the water off my skin, taking some comfort in the happy voices I can hear in the kitchen. I'm sure the wine has been broken out by now- we definitely deserve it- and knowing Linus, there'll be a toast soon. Sure enough, as I'm wrapping the green towel around my hips, I can hear the clink of wine glasses.

Scratching the back of my neck, I move out into my bedroom and make my way to the dresser. It's much cooler in here, and though I enjoyed my warm shower, the air feels nice against my skin; I can feel a few missed water drops on my shoulders cooling down. Rifling through my shirts, I wonder absent-mindedly what color Kirsten likes. I've never thought to ask her. Finally deciding on a green button-up shirt in my predictable plaid, I head toward my desk, where I remember throwing a pair of jeans earlier. Without really understanding why, I glance up at the door, and everything freezes.

I'm aware of about a million things in that brief moment. My bedroom door is partially slid open, and standing in the gap is Kirsten. I tense my shoulders, and I'm suddenly embarrassed and mortified and creeped out and shocked and a little smug at the sight of her standing there staring. Questions run through my mind faster than the speed of light: How long has she been standing there? What all did she see? Did she see me naked? No, I had my towel on before I left the bathroom. Why is my door open? I'm pretty consistent about keeping it all the way shut when I'm showering. Did I forget to shut it, or did someone open it? And why is Kirsten standing there? I can hear Linus and Camille in the other room, laughing about something, but she's standing here, in front of me. Why would she look inside my room? Why didn't she call out for me? I know she thinks watching people is intoxicating, but I can't imagine me being included in that. I'm suddenly hyper-aware of how bare I am, how low my towel is slung around my hips, how messy my hair is. She's staring quite intently into my eyes, her lips parted slightly.

I drop my shoulders a little, and her gaze moves from my eyes to my chest. With a sudden shock of embarrassment and defenselessness, I realize my scar is in plain view. Looking down at it, I know its significance, but I know she doesn't. Bracing myself, I look back up at her and raise my eyebrows in a sarcastic "What're you lookin' at?", but considering how vulnerable I feel, I'm sure it doesn't come off as such. She looks at my scar for a millisecond more, then meets my eyes again. For some reason I can't understand, she can't look away from me, frozen in her spying position.

Looking down again, I take a few steps towards the door. I hear her faintly suck in a breath, and when I look up, her shoulders have tensed up a little bit, and her eyebrows have shot up slightly. Not breaking eye contact, I keep going until I reach the door. We stare intensely at each other, and something unsaid passes from me to her. I am defenseless in this situation; she's caught me at an incredibly private moment, and I already feel weak, but the scar makes me feel ten times more vulnerable. As we keep our eyes locked on each other, I try to silently let her know that I am not weak, that my scar will not define me, like my parents had ensured it had my whole childhood.

Tightening my lips, I pull the door handle and shut the door. Kirsten's mouth opens like she's about to say something, but the wood shuts firmly before she can. Waiting, frozen, I listen for her receding footsteps, but it takes several moments before they sound across the wooden floor. I hear her re-enter the kitchen, the happy tones rising for a moment at her return.

I shuffle over to the end of my bed and sit heavily on it, slipping on my clothes. The intense vulnerability I felt is receding, bit by bit. When it is mostly gone, I go over what just happened. It's only then that I realize that Kirsten- who is never surprised- was staring at _me_ in awe. I'm suddenly aware of just how she was looking at me, like she couldn't take her eyes off, and wouldn't even if she could. She definitely appreciated what I try to keep hidden under my long-sleeved shirts, even if my scar had marred that a little. A shiver runs down my spine as I think of her slightly open lips, her appreciative gaze like a spotlight shining over me. I smirk slightly to myself, knowing that she thought I was attractive, at least on some level, and then push the moment to the back of my mind. At this point, Kirsten has definitely already moved on from what happened, and so should I. Taking a deep breath, I head out into the kitchen, hoping I can make it through the evening alive.


End file.
